d where was Fremont? Had he been taken by the police? Was he
already on his way back to the tombs? Then Jimmie sprang out of bed
with a grin on his face.

CHAPTER VI.

TWO BLACK BEARS IN TROUBLE.

Left alone in his room by the departure of Nestor, Fremont busied
himself for a time with the newspapers which his friend had brought in.
On the first page of the evening newspaper he found the source of
Nestor's information concerning the movements of the police.

The story, under a New York date line, was highly colored, the reporter
taking advantage of every strange happening to bring in paragraphs of
what he doubtless termed "local color." From first to last, every clue
was bent and twisted so as to point to the guilt of the boy. It seemed
that some cunning enemy was directing the reporters.

It was stated that Fremont had been seen in the building earlier in the
evening, and that the night watchman had "reluctantly" admitted that he
had heard high words passing between Mr. Cameron and his employe. The
interview with the watchman had taken place on the very night of the
crime. Since that time, the newspaper said, no one had seen him in New
York, at least no one who would admit knowledge of his movements to the
police.

On the whole, the newspaper made out a pretty good case against the
boy, and Fremont was pleased to think that he had taken the advice of
his friend and left the city. If he had not done so, he would now be in
the Tombs, he had no doubt.

After a time he tossed the paper aside and began walking up and down
his room, anxious for Nestor's return, anxious for a breath of mountain
air--for the freedom of the high places, for the sniff of a camp-fire.
It was then that he heard a footstep at his door.

He turned the lights down and waited, his hand on a weapon which had
been given him by Nestor. Then the door was opened softly and an arm
clad in khaki was thrust through the narrow opening. Fremont waited,
but no face followed the arm into view. Then, approaching nearer, he
saw something on the sleeve which sent the hopeful blood surging
through his veins. It was the badge of the Black Bear Patrol, and
beneath it was the Indian arrow-head badge of the Boy Scouts. With a
shout he caught at the door and threw it open. There, with a
delightful smile on his broad face, stood Frank Shaw.

Fremont seized his chum about the neck and dragged him into the room,
where the hugging and pulling about ri